


The Sacredness of Tears

by elareine



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is trying to be a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Discussion of Parental Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Families of Choice, Hugs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator, angst-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine
Summary: Tim Drake isn’t weak. He can’t be. And now that he can travel through time, he has the perfect tool to make sure he’ll never be vulnerable again.





	The Sacredness of Tears

**Author's Note:**

> For DCU Big Bang 2019. I'm going to add a link to Jellzu's work as soon as I wake up. Posting times are not very convenient for my time zone, sorry. In the meantime, check out their [art tumblr](https://jellzudoesart.tumblr.com), it'll be up there!
> 
> This uses events from the New Earth and the current continuity.

_Dear Tim, _

_When you read these lines, I'm likely dead. Forgive the melodramatic beginning. My lawyers have strict instructions to pass this onto you on the occasion of your eighteenth birthday in case of me being deceased._

_Since I do not know what our relationship will have been by the time of my death, I will write here only the information that is essential for you to know. _

_Upon reaching our majority, the men in our family are granted the power to travel back through time. Now, this is, of course, limited—you can only travel back along your own timeline. Random events stay random. Not everything is under your control. _

_Find a dark, quiet place, curl your hands into fists and think of the moment you would like to return to. I have found remembering the smell of the time helps, but I assume any sensory input would work. _

_I believe this letter will likely be greeted with disbelief, perhaps even with scorn. My own father had to attempt the conversation several times before I believed him. All I ask is this: Try it once. _

_It is an awesome gift and should not be treated lightly._

_Best regards, _

_Your Father, Jack_

“Disbelief” was too light a word for the emotion that flooded Tim as he read this letter. When the notification from his family lawyers had arrived that his father had left him something, he’d expected a list of assets or shares to be passed onto him upon reaching his majority. 

He’d _hoped _for an expression of regard by his parents from beyond the grave, but experience had taught him better than to be sentimental. 

But this… this… what even was this? His father having gone mad in his last days? A leftover from the coma? The letter wasn’t dated. There was no way to tell if his father had written it before his mother’s death or after. 

Which brought him neatly to the reason this entire thing was bullshit. His mother had died and his father had been in a coma—had almost lost the ability to walk, and he expected Tim to believe he could turn back time? 

Tim sighed and slid the letter into the folder in which he kept documents relating to the Drake family businesses. It was just another thing to ignore about his father. 

It was five months after his eighteenth birthday, and Tim was shaking in Kon's arms.

He had been stupid. Hadn’t reacted quickly enough. Had _waited too damn long_. 

Now his best friend was holding him close, trying to reassure _Tim_, as if Tim had been the one who—who almost— 

Maybe this was his punishment. He had long been aware of how easy it would be to just… lean in and kiss Kon. He felt the desire even now; just to reassure himself. 

Of course, nothing that would come after that would be easy. Kon wasn’t thinking of him that way. Hell, Tim wasn’t, either, not really—he wasn’t in love with Kon, not in a romantic way, but… it would be easy. Comfortable. Being held by Kon felt like being protected. 

That was the thought that led Tim to pull away. It was Tim’s job to protect Kon, not the other way around; at least it shouldn’t be. If Tim had been faster, if he’d been smarter, none of this would have happened—

And that’s when he thought of the weird letter his father had left him. 

It took was hours before Tim was alone. He had to convince Kon to get the appropriate medical attention, and then wait until his friend was passed out from the medicinal cocktail pumped into his blood. After that, there were debriefings to be had; explanations of how a simple fight against a Kobra strike force had gotten so out of hand.

Finally, Tim was in the small bathroom he used at the tower and staring at the light switch. 

This was stupid. He was stupid. 

But if there was even a small chance…

Tim turned off the light. In the dark, he clenched his hands into fists and thought back to the beginning of the battle. There had been adrenaline rushing through his veins, then, the fear that always accompanied him drowned out by cool competence. The air had smelled of magic and gun smoke. His costume had been itchy with sweat, though he barely noticed anymore, concentrating on the rhythm of his staff moving to block and strike his opponents—and then he was back there, in the middle of disposing of an enemy agent. 

Discombobulated, Tim needed a second to adjust. He hadn’t _really _thought this would happen. The sudden rush of adrenaline was enough to make him dizzy. 

That second almost cost him dearly. He saw the knife coming for him just in time. One nerve strike and the agent crumbled to the ground. There were three more headed towards Tim, but he hadn’t forgotten why he was here. 

The bomb would go off any minute now. 

“Everyone, get away!” he yelled, turning and running toward Kon specifically. “They have a frag!” 

One of the agents, just about to set the device off, cursed as Kon turned to see what was happening. Tim was running toward him, but his warning had been enough—Bart was on it. The bomb was far away from the scene of the battle within seconds. 

Seeing as their plans to capture or at least critically injure the Superman clone had been thwarted, the strike team began to withdraw/ran away. 

Tim made no move to follow them. He’d had enough of them for one day. 

“That was some quick thinking! _I _didn’t even notice that bomb.” Kon grinned at him. “As expected from you, Rob.” 

He held out his fist. 

Tim took just a second to stare at him. Kon had a cut on his cheek, but apart from that, he was unharmed. Unbroken.

Tim bumped his fist with Kon’s. It looked like he would need to reevaluate his father’s letter. 

After that, Tim began experimenting. His father had been right about smells being a good anchor to the past, though sounds, touch, and emotions worked just as well for Tim. As for the "dark, quiet place," closets worked best, but caves and under the bed were fine, too. He even tried the batmobile once and it was a success.

Tim had to be alone for it to work. Even if the other person was absolutely quiet and unaware of what was happening, their presence somehow seemed to inhibit his abilities. 

As for the effects… some things stayed random, as his father had written. Tim had tried to win the lottery—just once, and he’d have given his winnings to charity or just turned time back once more—but the numbers had come back differently on his second time living through that day. So chance still applied. Tim made a mental note to be very careful in case this applied to the genetic lottery of fatherhood, too. Not that he saw any babies in his immediate future.

Once he had figured out the _how_, he turned to the _why_—but only briefly. In a world of aliens and metas, time-travel genes that were passed along with the Y-chromosome and activated after exactly eighteen years weren't _that _surprising. Who had even come to conclusion that you had to be eighteen for it to work? If every son had only been told on their birthday that this was a possibility… maybe he could've been doing this at age eleven. Which was probably why no one would reveal their power to their kid before they turned marginally old enough to handle it.

As a kid, Tim had read up on the Drake family history and had marveled at the fantastic timing his ancestors had when it came to buying and selling. Knowing about their ability to travel back in time explained a lot.

After the _how _and the _why _came the _what now_. Tim decided to set himself some rules—he’d seen the sci-fi movies, okay, he knew it wasn’t a good idea to let himself run wild. 

1\. He wouldn't use this ability for himself. With great power and all that. Turning battles around in their favor was absolutely free game, though.

2\. He would avoid becoming complacent. Tim wouldn’t be able to travel back through time if he was dead. And: Just because others wouldn’t remember living through the pain in a second timeline, he couldn’t discount the possibility of the first timeline still existing somewhere. It was better to get it right the first time. 

3\. He couldn’t tell anyone about this. Not Bruce—Tim hadn’t been born yet when Bruce’s parents had died. He didn’t want to raise his hopes just to crush them. Not Dick—Tim had been so young when the Grayson’s were murdered. He also didn’t want to think about it, but—what would their lives be like if Bruce hadn’t taken in Dick? What would _Bruce _be like? No. Tim couldn’t tell them. 

(He wanted to tell Steph. She would see this as an adventure. But they hadn’t talked in months now.)

Tim nodded to himself. These rules were good. Now he could avoid situations like the one with Kon, where others had to comfort him because he couldn’t keep it together. He could stop making people worry about him. He could be strong. He could be useful. 

“You’re too late, Drake, as always.” 

Damian’s smirk was so fucking _smug_. Tim wanted to punch him. 

You'd have thought their relationship would have improved over the years. Damian was a teenager now, after all; the age Tim had been when he'd had to give up the Robin mantle. Tim's relationship with _literally everyone else _had smoothed over in the meantime. Hell, he even went for the occasional drink with Jason, and their disagreement (if you could even call it that) had been far more fundamental than Damian and Tim’s. 

Damian just always managed to cut to the heart of what was bothering Tim, stabbing him right into his insecurities. 

Tim knew he shouldn’t let himself become angry. He knew better. He knew. 

“Shut the fuck up—what’ve you been doing that’s so useful, huh?” 

For a second, Tim could've sworn Damian actually looked hurt. Then he yelled, "Fuck you!" and dramatically exited the cave.

Urgh. Teenagers. 

With Damian gone, silence reigned in the cave. Bruce’s expression looked set in stone. Dick wasn’t looking at Tim. 

Hot shame reddened Tim's cheeks. They didn't need to say anything. He could taste their disappointment in the air.

He didn’t even know what excuse he gave before he ran off to his room and turned off the lights. He just knew he needed to be better at this, or he was going to lose what little family he had. Tim closed his eyes and thought back. 

“You’re too late, Drake, as always.” 

This time, Tim just ignored Damian and turned to Bruce: "I got the info you requested. We're going to need to go back in; they have a second stash of weapons at the harbor."

Damian looked really annoyed now. “Incompetent and vague.” 

When Tim didn’t answer (there was just silence), he demanded: “Did you hear me?” 

“Yes, Damian, I heard you. Anyway, Dick, I think this links up with the activities in Blüdhaven, right?” 

Dick answered him in the affirmative, but Tim was watching Bruce. He wasn’t sure, but the older man seemed relieved. The constant arguments when his sons were in a room together must’ve been wearing him down, Tim realized. 

He’d do better, now. 

After that, Tim used time travel to deal with Damian (and other annoyances). Get it out of his system, then turn back time and react the way an adult was supposed to. Let himself be insulted and ignore it. 

He thought people appreciated it. Bruce certainly approved. 

Once, Dick asked him: “Tim… what do _you _want?” 

Tim had shrugged. What he wanted was for Damian to stop telling him how useless he was (he wanted to stop _being _useless), but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d settle for resolving this situation quickly. Damian’s plan wasn’t the best and put Tim farther away from the action than he preferred, but it would serve. 

Dick didn’t ask again. 

Eventually, Tim stopped needing to time travel every time. The silence in him was growing. Damian’s words stopped mattering; they weren’t anything new. 

After a lot of consideration, Tim decided that he had no right to interfere in the personal trauma of others if it had happened years ago. Maybe if he could ask for their consent in changing their lives—but he couldn't. As much as he wanted to fix things, wanted to make it better… if he went back so far in time, he would be changing every personal decision they had made since. Even if they wouldn't know, Tim couldn't bear the thought of infringing on their agency further.

There was one instance, though, that he reasonably felt he could change. No, that he _needed _to change. It had been his fault, after all. 

It took less concentration than he expected to get himself back to that afternoon five years ago. (He had never forgotten as easily as he wanted to.) The Odessa Mob was pulling Darla Aquista out of her car. Her bodyguard was bleeding. 

This time, Tim took her and Tyrone to a different part of the school, and sooner. The second time around, he was prepared. He knew exactly what to do. Fighting in a body that was both less damaged and less trained than his current one felt weird, but Tim could work around it. He made sure to stay with Darla; block her body with his if need be. 

In the end, he left Darla shocked, but alive. 

Returning to his time, twenty-year-old Tim looked at his phone. He intended to google Darla's name, but—there were messages from her. Just right there.

_You are so coming to our wedding, you’re the one who introduced us!! _

_No getting out of this one with important CEO/Robin business <3 just be thankful I’m not making you do a speech or bring a date_

Judging by her facebook account (which listed his own as a friend), she was indeed engaged to a boy Tim had vaguely known in school. They lived in Metropolis. She was studying to be a dentist. 

Nothing else had changed, as far as Tim could tell from his kitchen table. He tried to look up how many people had died without Laura Fell; however, that turned out to be impossible to judge. 

Still. He’d gotten this one right. 

The euphoria of having succeeded in fixing that particular mistake—of having gained a friend—carried him through the week. Even an all-bat operation called in by Bruce didn’t change that. 

Anyway, it was fine. The machine was grinding a lot more smoothly these days. Tim thought it had a lot to do with Duke’s presence and his own growing ability to ignore Damian. Even Jason showed up for the first time in years. He visibly held back, mostly sticking with Kate and occasionally Tim, but it was good to see him there. 

Tim liked seeing everyone together like this. They were his family, even if they weren’t always functional. So he lingered a bit, after they were finished, wanting to bask in the feeling of being part of this group for a bit longer. 

Jason seemed to notice, for he approached him casually. “Hey, wanna go out for a drink? I’ll buy.”

Tim mentally ran through a million possible reasons for Jason to ask him for this; usually, the other man couldn't leave quickly enough—ah. Today was April twenty-seven.

Tim wasn't tethered to anniversaries like that. He didn't wake up on the anniversary of his father's, his mother's—anyone's death, really, with the weight pressing down on him more than usual. He was aware that it was different for others, though. His calendar had the important ones marked down: Bruce's parents, Dick's parents, Jason's death, the birth of Steph's child, Jason's resurrection, Damian's death, Cass's, Donna's…

Maybe a normal person would have more birthdays marked in their calendar than deaths. 

“Why not,” he finally answered. 

An hour later, they were sitting in one of Jason’s favorite bars. Tim had expected that the elder would order shots again—he had seemed to enjoy seeing Tim cough at the burn of his first Tequila, the first time they did this—but Jason had been nursing the same beer for forty minutes now. 

Tim didn’t even know what he’d been doing when it happened. Listened to one of Jason’s tall tales? Ranting himself? Maybe he’d been laughing. 

Jason leaned forward. His lips caught the corner of Tim’s mouth. 

Tim barely had time to think, to enjoy this, before he pushed Jason away, flailing—what was happening—he wasn’t prepared—he couldn’t _do this_. 

His hand caught on his own bottle of beer. With a slow, horrible grind, it tipped over and sprayed fizzy liquid all over the two of them. 

Even worse, the expression on Jason’s face wasn’t anger. It was hurt. 

It was that observation that made Tim jump up from his seat. Everyone was looking at them now. _Everyone_.

Humiliated, Tim ran into the back of the restaurant, ignoring the startled glares of the service personnel—it wouldn't matter in a second anyway; none of this would matter, because it would never have _happened_. He wouldn’t let it. 

Tearing open the door to a broom closet, he stepped inside and closed his eyes. It took longer than usual to concentrate on the feeling of twenty minutes before. He’d been cautiously relaxed, then, not yet branded by Jason’s lips. 

Then he was back in the seat, and Jason was moving towards him. Fuck. He hadn’t concentrated hard enough. 

“Your breath smells of garlic!” 

Jason stared at him. He wasn't even eating anything with garlic in it, Tim noted too late. "Are you making fun of me?"

“No.” Tim watched him, apprehensive. For once, he couldn’t read the expression on Jason’s face at all; there might be an explosion imminent. 

Jason just... left. Put some money on the table, said something about "See you later"—and left.

Tim hadn’t realized that he’d expected the other man to get violent until his shoulders lost their tension. It wasn’t anything to feel ashamed about, he told himself. His interactions with Jason hadn’t always been great. Now he knew, and he wouldn’t expect it again. 

Didn’t change the fact he was ashamed about the other part of how he’d reacted, though. 

Minutes later, Tim was in the closet again. For a brief second, he considered whether that was ironic—but nah. This wasn’t a sexuality-related freakout, it was a Jason-related one. 

He couldn’t do this, not so soon after—after Kon. Tim would just fuck it up. He’d just gotten Jason back—what a joke, as if Jason had ever been his—as something-like-a-friend. He couldn’t lose him, not over this. It would just fuck up his family more. 

It would be okay, Tim told himself. It had just been a surprise the first time—he didn’t do well with those—and the second time he hadn’t had a script ready. Bruce had once told him he never moved too quickly—but this time, Tim had. 

It wouldn’t happen again. 

Five minutes later, Tim clenched his fists, concentrated—and was once again sitting next to Jason. 

This time, he let Jason tell the story. He even laughed at the same parts, though possibly more from nervousness than genuine amusement. When Jason leaned forward, he would pretend not to notice; he would "accidentally" turn his head, give Jason enough space to reconsider; he would be calm and unbothered, and they would both get out of this with their dignity intact—but Jason never leaned forward.

Instead he frowned at Tim. “You alright?” 

“I—yeah.” He couldn’t think of what to say—how had Jason changed the script on him _again_?— so he went with: “You?” 

Jason’s smile was wry. “Pretty good. Considering.” 

“Yeah.” Tim looked down at his bottle. He would be careful touching the damned thing again, that was for damn sure. 

They talked about other things after that. Jason didn't try to kiss him again.

Tim told himself that was a good thing.

Trouble was, now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Jason Todd had tried to kiss him, and no matter how much Tim tried to categorize that incident, to make it fit with everything he knew about the other man—about their relationship—he couldn’t. 

He tried to find out more. It wasn't easy. Jason's friends weren't Tim's. All the gossip about him in the vigilante community centered around his wildcard status, not his private life. Finally, Tim decided to try the ‘three degrees of Dick Grayson'-rule he and Kon had been joking about.

“Jason? I thought he’s dating that woman on his team. They’re always all over each other.” 

"You're very physical with your friends, too," Tim pointed out. He knew very well Dick didn't date as many people as rumors would have it.

“Yeah, but Jason isn’t, is he?” Dick shrugged. “I dunno. I just thought I got a vibe.” 

Tim didn't dare request more information. He was surprised Dick wasn't questioning him about his motives for asking as it was. Besides, it made sense. He had only met Artemis of Bana-Mighdall once; she had left quite an impression on him. She and Jason would make a formidable pair. Jason admired practicality and competence, after all.

Maybe they had been going through a rough patch; perhaps Jason had been more intoxicated than he'd let on. Either way—kissing Tim had been clearly a mistake. Tim should just forget about it.

Tim didn’t just forget about it. It hurt. 

Injuries had gotten easier to deal with, once he had begun to time travel. He obviously didn’t use his powers for every bruise or even sprain; just for the series ones, the ones that kept him from going out and helping people. 

Then he got a concussion. 

In a way, it was a miracle it had taken so long for him to get one, considering the rate people tried to hit him on the head on a nightly basis. (Few of those people succeeded, though. Tim was only becoming quicker with age. He wasn’t an easy target for anyone these days.) It hurt like a bitch, too. Tim really did not appreciate the pain and dizziness. 

He had never noticed how bright the lights in his apartments were. 

Bruce switched those lightbulbs out for him. Dick took over his patrol. Kon “dropped by” every few hours. Bart brought sensory-friendly snacks. Cass sent him a soft blanket. Someone had even left soup in front of his door. 

Every one of them had offered to stay with Tim.

Tim had refused; craving the quiet, the dark—the chance to make this go away. 

Finally, finally he was alone. Tim closed his eyes, tried to remember what it felt like to be sharp, to be whole. 

He couldn’t. 

So he concentrated on the way the grass had smelled just before that thug had snuck up behind him. He remembered feeling the heaviness of the air, the moisture of an approaching storm. His hands were clenched into fists with enough force his knuckles, and Tim was trying to think back so hard—nothing worked.

Tim was stuck in the present. 

Tim _knew _he should be doing anything but laying there, staring at the ceiling. Even if TV or video games or anything that involved a screen wasn’t really in the cards—he had a long queue of podcasts just waiting for him. 

Instead he laid there on the couch, clutching a pillow to his chest and listening to the silence ringing, ringing, ringing. 

It would be nice to be held, Tim thought muzzily. Thick arms around him, pulling him gently against a broad chest. He always liked it when Steph did that. Or maybe Tim could climb into his lap, rest his aching head against a shoulder while he was being hidden from the world. 

Even heavily concussed, Tim sighed at himself. It was ridiculous. He was twenty-one, and here he was, dreaming about his childhood hero. 

Tim hugged his pillow tighter to his body; squeezed until it felt like there was something to hold onto. It was a poor substitute for human warmth. It would have to do. 

Once he recovered, Tim considered going back; make that humiliation un-happen. In the end, the risk of getting stuck with the injury again was too high.

As for the other matter… He had no idea what to do about his growing feelings for Jason. His instincts told him to ignore them. He was putting way too much onto one person again. 

He kept meeting up with Jason, though. The other man was obviously beginning to see him as a friend, maybe even family. As much as Tim wanted to run away from the feeling in his chest whenever Jason smiled at him, he didn't have it in him to reject him. Besides, it was just the occasional hang-out in a neutral place, maybe two or three times a month. It wasn't helping Tim not be at least a bit in love with Jason, but it was endurable.

Of course, then Jason had to go and die for him. 

If Tim sounded in any way casual about this, it was only because he was _furious_. Jason had thrown himself in front of Tim, taken a bullet for him—a bullet that would’ve hit Tim in the head and managed to cut through Jason’s unprotected left carotid artery—and _what the fuck_. Tim vaguely knew he was in shock. There had been no last words, no good-bye—just Jason bleeding out quickly in front of him while Tim was still taking down his attacker. 

He’d turned around to see Bruce kneeling beside Jason’s body. The helmet was off. Tim didn’t need to look at Jason’s face, his too-still chest, to know he was dead. He was covered in Jason’s blood. 

Tim knew he would have nightmares about this for years. 

He allowed himself six seconds to let the horror wash over him. Then he went to find a dark, quiet space. There was no question about it—he wasn’t going to let this happen. Maybe Jason would prefer dying a hero’s death to being resurrected again. But Jason wouldn’t remember; Tim would, and Tim _didn’t care_. 

He made himself return to a few minutes before—before. He turned to Jason and yelled: “There’s a sniper, get over there!” And he prayed that it would be enough. That he wouldn’t have to go through this again.

Jason hesitated. 

Tim was glad the cowl covered his eyes. He had a hard enough time trying to keep his mouth still; his eyes must surely look desperate. There wasn’t really a good reason for Jason to be the one to head over; in the previous timeline, Dick had been the one to take care of the sniper. There was no good reason except that Tim needed Jason to stop standing between him and the bullet. 

Jason nodded and moved.

Tim exhaled and forced himself to concentrate on the fight. He knew the bullet was coming—saw the barrel rise toward him this time—but he was forewarned. He would be fine. A few centimeters to the left should do it.

There was a tug on his cape, pulling him further out of the way. 

“Careful, Red,” Jason’s voice scolded him. Tim nodded, grunted a “thanks” his way, and the battle moved on. 

As far as everyone else was concerned, this had been a typical day at the office. Tim was glad he would never have to see his father and brothers trying to grapple with Jason's sacrifice; he still wished he weren't alone in knowing about it.

This time, it was Tim who lingered around Jason. 

The other noticed. “Hey, you okay?” 

Don’t laugh, Tim told himself. “Yeah.” 

“You sure?” Jason frowned. “You look a bit spaced out.”

Pushing him away hadn't kept Jason safe. There was a world out there where Tim couldn't change time. A world where he had watched Jason die for him. In light of that, it seemed pointless to deny himself the pleasure of giving in and spending time with him. Just a little bit.

Tim asked: “Wanna come to my place? I have pizza.” 

They met up more often, after that. Jason seemed to take that pizza as a standing invitation to drop by and talk to Tim about some case or other. (Tim’s brain made some awful jokes about Jason being a vampire; he’d only waited for Tim’s invitation.) It was comfortable. 

Eventually, Tim was even able to sleep through the night again without looking down at his hands and seeing Jason’s blood. 

There wasn't any going back now. Maybe this feeling would fade. Perhaps someday, Tim would be able to look at Jason and only feel friendly affection tinged with brotherly annoyance. Maybe.

Funnily enough, now that he accepted it—now that he allowed himself to just love Jason without any expectations in return—it was as if the burden on his shoulders had eased up. He didn’t feel pathetic anymore. 

It just was. 

There was one thing Tim couldn’t fix, no matter how often he tried. 

He was honest about his life as Robin. He tried to spare her from the sight of his father's death. He was there for her after, in a way he hadn't been in the original timeline.

Nothing seemed to matter. Every time Tim returned to being twenty-two, Dana Winters-Drake was still receiving intensive psychiatric treatment in Blüdhaven. 

It was a sobering reminder: Even with time travel, he couldn’t fix everything. He was still just Tim. Sometimes, that wasn’t enough. 

Most of the time, Tim only used his abilities for special occasions like severe injuries to him or his friends, or civilian deaths.

The biggest exception of the following year was when it became clear that there was something wrong with Dick. 

Tim had noticed that his brother had been less cheerful as of late, his smiles more strained, but had attributed it to the usual pressures of their lives. Then Dick had gotten injured—not unusual per se, but the fact that he’d been too slow to move out of the way of the knife coming toward him at human speed decidedly was. 

When Tim spoke with Raven, he found out why. She looked upset when she told him: "I don't think he's sleeping. There was that fight with Luthor—and he's been that way for weeks, ever since he broke up with—" She cut herself off there.

Tim didn’t force her to continue. He’d heard enough.

Dick was his brother. Not some golden boy, no iconic symbol or loyal fighter for justice—his brother. His family. Tim had failed him; he wouldn’t do so again. 

That night, Tim went on a social media investigation spree, paying much, much closer attention now to the poses in and tone of Dick’s posts, both on his public accounts (for Dickie Grayson and for Nightwing) and his personal one. There had been a subtle, but marked change in the way he talked about love and relationships around the twentieth of July. 

Tim memorized the date. He himself had gotten in the habit of jotting down notes about his days—a diary, if you will—with special attention given to sensory experiences and feelings. You never knew when a particular day would suddenly become relevant in retrospect.

Finally, he traveled back to July twenty-first. It had been a quiet day for him, mostly spend doing case-research that had yielded few results and a casual dinner with Jason before patrol. He could afford to miss that.

Tim couldn’t prevent the break-up. That kind of interference was too much even for him. But he could make sure that someone was there to catch Dick. His brother would need some time to mope, for sure—he wasn’t _that _extroverted, no one was—but Tim wouldn’t let spin out of control, this time. 

He called Bruce; let Jason know he was going out of town for the night—could Jason take over his route? 

Then he hacked the Titans’ group chat. 

It took three rings before Dick opened the door for Tim. To be fair, Tim didn't think that Dick was hiding from him—usually, the bats visited through the windows.

“Tim?” 

“Hi.” Tim gave Dick a quick hug—not long enough to let him know something was up, but he thought they both needed one. 

“Hi! Come in.” Dick visibly tried to smile sunnily at him. “It’s a mess, though, I gotta warn you. What brings you here? Got a case for me?” 

Tim shook his head and followed him into the living room. “Nothing like that. I just wanted to see you. Hang out a bit.” 

Dick instantly looked suspicious. “Tim. What are you doing here?” 

He’d never been able to lie to him, so Tim said: “I didn’t think you should be alone,” hoping he didn’t sound condescending. 

Dick bristled—whether at the insinuation of weakness or of Tim being able to do something about it, Tim didn’t know—but was interrupted by the window sliding open. 

Bruce and Damian, it seemed, had decided on the conventional route. At least they were dressed in civilian clothes. 

“Okay, seriously—what are you doing here?”

This time, it was Bruce who answered. “We’re worried.”

“I’m fine.” 

Bruce ignored that and pulled Dick into his arms, holding on tightly. “You will be, son.”

There was nothing better than a hug by your dad when life was shit, Tim knew. You were never too old to be hugged by Bruce. Damian joined in, also, pressing himself against Dick.

“What about Gotham?” Dick finally asked, extracting himself partially. 

Tim’s heart broke a little. “Hood is on it.”

Dick’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t look at Bruce, but he asked: “Just like that.” 

“Just like that.” Tim had been surprised, too, that Bruce was letting Jason take over his route together with Signal and Spoiler. “He says to let him know if you need any bodies buried. Or someone to punch. I think he meant himself, but I’m not sure.”

There was silence.

“I’m not very good at this cheering up thing,” Tim finally told Dick. 

Dick looked ready to protest, but Bruce (probably knowing what Tim would do next) said: “None of us are.” 

Damian looked deeply unhappy, like it was some personal failure. Dick patted his head soothingly. “There’s nothing to distract me from.”

Tim just continued: “So I called in some people who are.” 

With perfect timing, the doorbell rang. 

When a dazed-looking Dick opened the door, his team was instantly all over him like a particularly worried swarm of bees. They had brought Barbara with them. She'd had to wrap something up, or she would've been here for the first round of hugs.

(Okay, so Tim had been tracking Babs’ phone—with her permission—to make sure the timing worked out perfectly. He knew Dick would appreciate the dramaticality of it.) 

Half an hour later found them all in front of the TV, a mountain of food arranged in front of them. Tim had chosen a playlist of old action movies for them to watch (the ones with lots of manly men and no romance), but there was so much talking, no one really knew what was happening.

No one was mentioning why they were here—not yet—but Dick was starting to look less tight around the eyes already. 

If Tim subtly added suggestions of how to lighten Dick’s general workload into his conversations—he didn’t fool himself that it was only the breakup that was the problem—no one seemed to notice him doing it. In the end, he was satisfied that Dick would be taken care of.

Tim leaned back into the couch, finally relaxing, and looked around at this group of people with pride. Not for belonging to them, no; not even for them acting like a real family for once. He was proud of Dick for giving his heart out like that, of making every single person here care about him so much. 

They all leaned on him. Perhaps too much. It was time to remind Dick that he could lean on them, too.

Maybe it was surprising how long it took for Tim to come to the realization that it wasn’t just Jack’s coma his father could’ve fixed. He suspected it was seeing Bruce hug Dick like that that shook something loose in his brain, though the actual breakdown happened weeks later. 

His father had been able to time travel, too. He could've spend time away on holiday, seen all the exotic places and sights he wanted, had every adventure the world could offer—and then returned to spend a second, lasting timeline with Tim; made sure his son had a father to come home to.

Jack hadn’t done that. 

Even when they were trying to improve their relationship (and Tim had tried, he’d tried so fucking hard, and he’d thought his father had too), his father hadn’t… he hadn’t… 

His father hadn’t thought Tim worth it. Hadn’t thought him worth _loving_, because he wasn’t. 

Panic clawed his way through him, followed by a familiar heaviness, both ravaging his head and heart until he was slumped down on the floor, panting, trying to get his brain to stop screaming. 

Fuck. It hadn’t been this bad in so long. 

Tim didn’t know how long it was until the door opened. He didn’t even notice anyone was there—but then Jason was. Kneeling down in front of him and reaching out with a worried look on his face. 

Tim had to close his eyes. 

“Tim? What is it?” 

Tim couldn’t answer. He’d stopped crying at some point, but a sob was still ready to claw its way out of his throat. 

Jason seemed to understand. The hand on his shoulder pressed down for a second as if giving him permission to stay silent. 

Jason didn’t touch him more than that, and distantly, Tim felt thankful. His skin felt itchy, foreign—he couldn’t handle any more input right now. The single point of pressure was good, though. Something to concentrate on. To ground him. 

Tim tried to do just that. 

He felt Jason’s hands gently pull his own away from where they were clawing into his thighs. Their fingers linked together. Jason told him: “You can hold on as tightly as you want.” 

Tim followed his direction blindly, squeezing down as firmly as the tension in his body demanded. Weirdly, it helped.

He didn’t know how much time it took, but finally, his breathing slowed down. 

There as a gentle tug on his hands, still linked with Jason’s, and he followed it forward until he was slumped against Jason’s shoulder, his head just… resting there, listening to him breathe. 

He still felt like shit—but this was… manageable. 

“Can we stay like this for a bit?” 

“As long as you need.” 

It took time. The evening sun was already throwing its yellow rays through the window when Tim felt awareness return. It had set by the time he felt ready to move. 

To his credit, Jason stayed silent the entire time, just occasionally giving his hands a squeeze as if to remind Tim that he was still there. He smelled nice. Clean. No cologne or fragrant shampoo, just… Jason, with a hint of laundry detergent from his shirt. 

He took a deep breath, let go of Jason’s hands and opened his eyes. “Sorry. We can get up now.” 

“Okay. Just, uh.” Jason scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “My legs have kind of fallen asleep?” 

Now that Tim thought about it… “Oh. So have mine.” 

“Let’s give it a minute.” Jason turned around so he was sitting next to Tim with his back to the wall, stretching his legs out with a small grunt. 

Tim mirrored him. If he leaned more on Jason than he usually would in this position, well. He'd just spent hours crying on the guy's shoulder.

Tim vaguely considered asking what Jason had come to his apartment for in the first place. He couldn’t muster up the energy to care. It couldn’t have been important if Jason was still here.

“Want to talk about it?” Jason finally asked. 

Tim shook his head. 

“Okay.” 

“My father—he—” His throat closed again. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to apologize for.” Jason’s hand closed around his again, giving a gentle squeeze. “Seriously.” 

“Okay.” 

“What do you need? Silence? Talking it through? Distraction? Me to leave?” 

_A new brain_. 

“Distraction’s good.” Tim hesitated. “And… you can stay. If you want to. This isn’t—”

Jason looked relieved. “Okay, good. Netflix marathon? I have Indiana Jones queued up.” 

Tim could do that. 

They spent the evening watching movie after movie until Jason fell asleep on the couch next to Tim. Tim left him there, and reluctantly went to his own room to try and sleep.

It was when he was alone in his bed, after, that the shame came back. 

He shouldn’t have let Jason see him like that. Aww, poor Timmy Drake, rich and unwanted. 

Pathetic. 

Tim was halfway out of bed—was so ready to just make this un-happen—when the thought struck him: If he turned time back now, wasn't he only using Jason?

He… hadn’t ever considered it from this angle before, but—Tim wouldn’t have the same breakdown again. And the reason he was standing here unharmed was that Jason had stopped by and helped him. 

Wouldn’t it be unfair, to profit from Jason’s help and make him forget all about it instead of thanking him? Weren’t there enough people using Jason like that already? 

(His thinking voice was starting to sound a lot like Alfred.) 

Still, the temptation to head into the closet was overwhelming. Tim did the only thing he could think of: He crept back into the living room, hesitantly approaching the sleeping man on his couch. 

Of course Jason woke up. Tim kind of expected to be attacked; Jason only cracked an eye open and murmured: “Tim?”

Tim bit his lip. “Hold my hand again?” 

What Jason tried to do in answer: Grab Tim’s hand and pull him down next to him. 

What Jason actually did: Grab Tim’s hand and pull him down right on top of him. 

For a second they were both stock-still, Jason’s eyes wide open now. Then he seemed to decide to roll with it, pulling Tim close and grabbing the remote with his free hand. “Another movie to doze off to?” 

“Star Wars?” 

“Sure.” 

It was pretty comfortable, sitting between Jason’s legs like this, Tim had to admit, and there was no possible way he could sneak off to travel through time. Maybe he’d get through the night alright after all. 

In the end, neither of them slept much. When Tim tried to apologize in the morning, Jason shrugged it off and told him: “I get insomnia, too. This was a nice way to pass the time.” 

“You could—if you wanted, like, you can stop by when that happens? I’ll probably be awake.” Tim told himself this was a counter-offer to make up for what he owed Jason, not a desperate bid to spend more time with the other man; to enjoy more of that quiet closeness that had calmed him down so effectively; to have whatever he could of Jason. 

“Careful. I might take you up on that offer.” 

When Tim didn’t reply—“Please do” seemed a bit too desperate even for him—Jason turned to leave. “Well, get some more rest, okay? See ya.” 

Tim steeled his nerve and called after him. “Jason? Thank you.” 

Jason waved it off—again—but Tim thought that he’d looked… proud, maybe? 

Oh. 

Jason didn't take him up on the offer. Tim told himself not to be disappointed. Maybe Jason invented his insomnia to make Tim feel better. He was starting to suspect that kind of thing wasn't beyond the other man (and wasn't that a sweet surprise?)

Then he sent Jason an e-mail at four a.m. on a Tuesday night and got a reply within three minutes. 

Tim frowned. Jason's patrol had ended two hours ago. If there were urgent business to keep him up, he wouldn't be replying to Tim's rather trivial case info. He grabbed his phone.

_What’re you doing up?_

_Can’t sleep. _

Maybe he shouldn’t ask. But maybe—just maybe—Jason just needed some reassurance that he was welcome. Tim pushed all metaphors about wolves and fire out of his head and typed: _Me neither. Wanna come over?_

_U sure it’s all right? _

_Of course, get your ass over here or I’ll start Poirot without you_

_Noooo I’ll be there in fifteen _

It became a routine after that. Jason would come over, or Tim would call him, and they would spend the evening on the couch. They didn't always watch Netflix—Jason started bringing books over, and they passed some enjoyable time in silence as he read, Tim typing away on his tablet or scrolling through Buzzfeed.

(Eventually Tim noted with bemusement that he’d somehow acquired a small library and bought some shelves. Jason just laughed when he saw them and brought along Justice League–themed bookends. Tim was particularly fond of the tug-of-war between Green Lantern and Batman. They had really captured the pissed-off expression on Bruce’s face whenever he spoke to Hal.) 

Tim also somehow kept ending up pressed against Jason’s side. They never talked about it, but every time, without fail, he’d find Jason’s arm slung around his shoulder. 

Tim loved it. Like this, he could talk about anything, hidden from the world by Jason's arm, his muscular bulk against him. It was feeling small, but in a good way.

He wasn’t quite sure what Jason got out of it. Maybe it was to be trusted. Someone like Jason wouldn’t take that for granted. Tim had considered telling Jason that he _did _trust him—so much, ridiculously so considering their history but perfectly natural considering everything that had happened since—but there was really no way to phrase that without basically vomiting his feelings all over the other man. 

Inevitably, the subject of Tim’s breakdown came up again. Tim gave Jason kudos for waiting a few weeks. 

They had just finished another Miss Marple mystery when Jason began. “Feel free to shut me up anytime—”

“I always do.” 

“—but does do you have these meltdowns often?” 

"No. I… I used to have them more often, as a teen." Tim took a deep breath. He'd prepared for this. "Turns out that was also triggered by depression, yay. I received medication and help, and I have that part under control. Uh, the depression, I mean. You know, as much as you can. The meltdowns and the other stuff… it's been a while."

If Jason was surprised at the revelations about Tim’s medical history, he didn’t show it. He nodded gravely. “So what happened?” 

“I—my father—” Tim tried to phrase it in a way to make Jason understand, but he didn’t know how—he couldn’t mention the time travel thing—and anyway: “How much do you know about my family?” 

“I’ve done my research—duh. And I can draw my own conclusions from the fact that you were out at night at age _eleven_. But it’s all very surface.” 

“Yeah,” Tim agreed bitterly. “Surface. That about nails it.” 

Then he didn’t know how to continue. 

“Look, you don’t need to tell _me_,” Jason told him earnestly. “Or heck, any one of us. I get that it’s difficult. Just—why not tell a stranger? That’s what therapy is there for.” 

“I have a psychiatrist.” Though admittedly Tim couldn’t remember the last time he had an appointment that wasn’t related to picking up a prescription for his meds. 

“Then talk to them. Or someone else. I just—look, I know you can’t be honest about everything, but it can still help. Especially about family stuff. And it’s _Gotham_, you’re not going to shock anyone.” Jason ran a hand through his hair, starting to look agitated. “I’m not explaining this well. I accidentally told my therapist I died and all she did was write a note to research how the Pit might affect brain chemistry. Like. They’ve heard some shit, man, it’ll be fine.” 

Tim couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Did you practice that speech?” 

Jason gently slapped his shoulder in reproach but admitted: "Probably should've. I’m suddenly gaining a whole new appreciation of the way Kori sat Roy and me down and read us Wikipedia articles."

“She didn’t.”

“She did.” 

“…did it work?” 

“Oh yeah. We’re still trying to convince her to do the same to Dick, but—that’s complicated.” 

“I can imagine.” Tim’s voice was dry. 

“Will you at least consider it?” 

After a long second, Tim nodded. Jason was right, after all. These kinds of panic attacks, or meltdowns, or whatever they were—they were only the tip of the iceberg; an empathetic warning sign that some underneath was going wrong. He should get some help. After all, hadn't he be the one to tell Ra's that he wasn't Bruce? He didn't carry everything alone.

Besides. The more competitive side of him also pointed out that if Jason could do it, so could Tim. 

Jason smiled and pulled him closer, murmuring, "Thank you."

Tim rested his head against Jason’s shoulder again and took some time to just breathe. Then he asked softly: “Can I still tell _you _about it?” 

“If you want to.” The surprise in Jason’s tone was audible. 

“I can’t tell you what it was, exactly. It was just a small thing—that really drove home that they didn’t care. Not enough.” Tim swallowed. “That they never did.” 

In response, Jason’s other arm wrapped around him so that Tim was now fully enveloped in a hug and sitting in Jason’s lap. “I’m sorry,” Jason whispered. “That’s shitty.” 

That was why Tim had decided to tell him. Jason wouldn’t go ‘But surely they did, you just didn’t notice’ or ‘They just loved you in their own way’ or ‘They must have.’ He knew what it was like. 

Of course, that thought just sent Tim down another guilt spiral. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "I know it's not really comparable—like, I was taken care of and all that, it's not like you—"

But Jason wasn’t having any of it. “No. Don’t even start with that. My mom was an addict. Drugs are a pretty terrible thing to compete with—but I always knew that she loved me; that she cared. Every kid should have that—_you _should have had that. You deserved it.” 

To his own surprise, Tim was crying. 

Later, he would tell Jason about the endless array of housekeepers that had tried to be a substitute parent for him, only to be fired. Later, Jason would reciprocate by sharing stories of trying to survive on the streets; of how rejection had become a daily part of his life, too. Much, much later, they would fall asleep, still tangled up on the couch. 

But for now, Tim cried and let himself be held.

The next day, Jason sent him a Wikipedia link to the article about child neglect and its long-term effects with the comment: _Just imagine Kori reading it for you._

Tim laughed. Then he called his psychiatrist to ask for a referral.

„So I’ve started seeing a therapist,“ Tim told Kon when they saw each other next. Well. He blurted it out. „To help with… stuff. Reframing, self-image, coping methods. That kinda thing.“ 

„Ah. Uh, good.“ 

Tim's shoulders slumped with relief despite Kon's flat tone. There wasn't any judgment there. „Don't sound too enthusiastic or anything."

„No, that’s great,“ his friend told him earnestly. „Seriously, I’m proud of you. Just—why didn’t you tell me it was getting worse?“ 

Fair question. „Because I didn’t know myself. Stupid, I know.“ 

„So it wasn’t this whole memory… thing?“ Kon gestured wildly with his hands. Amazingly, Tim knew exactly what he meant. 

„No! No, just, I didn’t realize I wasn’t dealing well ‘cause it wasn’t like before, so. But I got my ass kicked into gear recently and, yeah. Sorry. You know I’d always tell you first, right?“ 

Kon smiled. „As long as you know it, too.“ 

„I do.“ Tim did. He just occasionally forgot. 

„C’mere, dumbass.“ Kon pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t easy to tell with a half-Kryptonian who could crush you with his little finger, but he was tense—expecting Tim to pull away. 

Tim melted into it and hugged back. 

Kon’s hugs were gentler than Jason’s, he noted distantly. His friend was always so careful not to hurt him. Still, the arms around were solid and warm and comforting. 

There wasn’t any desire to press closer or to kiss Kon. 

Then he felt Kon’s grip on him tighten—to keep him from running away, this time, and he knew the question would come before it did. 

„So… this person that kicked your ass into gear, do I know them?“ 

„Uh.“ Damn. He was blushing. 

Kon must've heard the blood rushing through his cheeks or something because he crowed: „I knew it! Tell me everything!"

„There’s nothing to tell.“ 

His friend was quiet for a few seconds. It was suspicious enough that Tim pulled back enough to peer up at him—and sure enough, Kon’s smile was gleeful. „Wait. Don’t tell me it’s the thigh-wonder.“ 

„The what?“ Tim sputtered. 

„You know. No longer in the panties—don’t glare at me like that, you showed me the pictures—still got amazing thighs. And guns. Of both kinds. Which I’m sure you didn’t notice.“ 

Man, Tim was so glad he kept this friendship. Wouldn’t keep him from trying to throw Kon off this roof just for that, though. 

That’s just who they were. No time travel needed. 

Bruce wasn't taking aging well. Tim suspected he himself wouldn't, either. Didn't make watching Bruce chafe at the increasing limits of his body and the toll that repeated trauma was taking on his mind any easier—especially since his adoptive father seemed to consider withdrawing from everyone that cared about him to be the appropriate solution.

(Times like these Tim was reminded how similar he and Bruce were. He noted it—and swore to himself not to follow the same path.)

Still, the way Bruce stormed into the cave on a September evening was angrier than usual. Tim, who was using the cave’s resources to run a few tests before this night’s patrol, looked up in alarm. “What happened?” 

He was vaguely aware that Bruce had grudgingly agreed to let Jason in on an operation that was in Jason’s territory, so he wasn’t too surprised when Bruce spat: “Jason. We had them—five operatives, seven civilians—and he charged right in when he saw what was happening.” 

Ah. 

“Any casualties?” Tim asked carefully. 

Bruce shook his head. 

“Did you arrest everyone?” _Alive_, he didn’t say. 

Bruce nodded. 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“He was too impatient,” Bruce grunted. “Endangered people.” A pause. “He should know better.” 

There was hurt behind these words. Tim let it go. 

Surprisingly, he ran into Jason later that night. Usually he disappeared after a fight with Bruce. Or a civil conversation with Bruce. Or anything to do with Bruce, really. 

“Hi, Red.”

“Hood.” 

In costume, they didn't hug in greeting—not a good idea for Red Robin to be seen being too friendly with the scourge of the underworld, or something. Jason's voice expressed the sentiment anyway.

“How’s it going? Ridden Gotham of any heinously villainous characters lately?” 

“Only five so far.” 

Jason cackled. “See, I never know if you’re serious or not when you say stuff like that. Please don’t tell me.” 

Tim wiggled his eyebrows at him, secure in the knowledge the other wouldn’t see. “I’m always serious.”

“Right.” Jason stretched the ‘i’ until it became a mockery.

“How about you?” 

Jason’s hand began fiddling inside his jacket pocket. (Tim was halfway sure he wore that damn jacket only cause it mostly hid that particular tell. The other explanation was that Jason _knew _how it made him look, and Tim didn’t want to consider that.) “Harbor is quiet tonight.”

Well, it would be, after a Red Hood and Batman–led gang bust. 

Tim could feel Jason’s gaze on him at his silence. 

“I gather you know how my afternoon went, then?” 

“I… might’ve noticed Bruce returning home in one heck of a mood.” Tim did his best to affect a casual posture. 

“You could say that.” 

Tim considered ignoring the whole thing; distract Jason, maybe; make a nice evening out of this shitshow of a day. 

No. 

“He said something about you endangering people?” 

Tim got the distinct impression that Jason was rolling his eyes under the helmet. "I did a risk assessment, saw that they were about to _kill two people _and decided we should probably not wait around for that. And then he had the nerve to yell at me about not waiting for backup as if I_ didn’t have the Batman standing right there_. What does he think he is, the studio audience?” 

“He worries.” Tim wasn’t defending Bruce, just pointing out a fact. Jason had a point, but so had Bruce. It was just that things rarely stayed factual with those two.

“I know—but fucking hell, he needs to find a way to deal with it.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Tim’s agreement was heartfelt. God knew he’d been on the receiving end of Bruce’s misplaced wrath more than once, too. Still, it wasn’t quite the same for Jason, was it? 

Jason sighed. The movement of his helmet indicated that he wasn’t looking at Tim. “I don’t make it easy for him, I know. It’s just—”

Tim waited, but there didn’t seem to be a follow-up. After a moment of consideration, he took off his cowl and moved. He sat down at the ledge, patting the space beside him invitingly. Fuck anyone seeing them together. “C’mon. You were the one who told me to talk about stuff—don’t want to make yourself a hypocrite, do you?” 

The other sighed again and took off his helmet before joining him on the ledge. He didn’t leave much of a distance between them, which Tim appreciated. For warmth. 

“It’s just…” Jason shrugged. The gesture wasn’t nearly as casual as it was supposed to be. “He doesn’t—urgh, it’s difficult to explain.” 

Tim gently nudged his shoulder with his own and waited. 

“It’s like he… he’s still expecting me to be fourteen, you know?” 

“In what way?” 

“Like he wants me to be that kid again—though I dunno why he’d want that—he didn’t particularly approve of me back then, either. Like he wants me to be that, and because I’m not, he treats me like I’m like I was when I came back, which—” 

“Which you’re not,” Tim told him very firmly. He wasn’t. Jason had grown _so much_. 

“Yeah.” Jason exhaled. “Fuck, sorry—I’m not making sense, I know.” 

“I’ve noticed it, too.” 

“Yeah?” 

“The others… They expect you to act a certain way. I’ve never figured out what exactly that was, but I know it has nothing to do with who you are. Difficult for them to see who that is, maybe.” 

Jason smiled. “You do.” 

He did, Tim realized. Jason, the Robin he still counted as his first love, and Jason, the asshole that almost killed him—they were in the past. Still relevant because they were a part of Jason, but not nearly as important as the man that was sitting next to him right now. 

The man he loved. 

Tim didn't know what to answer, and maybe he didn't need to; he just moved closer to Jason and rested his head on his shoulder. They didn't do this outside of their homes; still, Jason seemed to welcome it, pulling him in with a hand around his waist.

“Thank you,” Jason whispered into his hair, pressed a fleeting kiss there. 

Tim hummed in contentment. 

They sat there like this, enjoying the quiet night air together until their coms called them away. Even as he left, Tim thought the night felt warmer than before.

The next morning he finally had time and space to consider the issue from a time-travel point-of-view. 

Tim wanted to fix what was happening, and he had the unique opportunity to. Not just for Jason’s sake—privately, he thought that Jason might be better off without Bruce’s presence to remind him of his past. Bruce, however, was chafing more under their strained relationship than he was letting on, Tim was sure. And, selfishly, he wanted them to be okay for himself. They were both important to him. He wanted them to get along. 

On the other hand, he needed that conversation with Jason to have happened. For himself, but also for Jason. Somehow, Tim had said something the other needed to hear. 

Still, Jason deserved to hear it from Bruce, too. After careful consideration, Tim closed his eyes and thought himself back to the cave.

“He was too impatient,” Bruce grunted. “Endangered people.” 

Tim turned to him and relaxed into a conversational pose. “‘People’?” he asked. “Or himself?” 

He got a grumble in answer and sighed. “Bruce.” 

His father stopped mid-movement at his tone. “Yes?” 

“Would you have reacted the same if it had been me?” 

“You wouldn’t have made that move.” 

“Maybe I would have. Maybe I wouldn’t have, and people would have died.” 

Bruce’s jaw was set. “It’s different.” 

Tim took a deep breath. 

“Jason’s been a vigilante in Gotham for eight years now, with or without your support. He’s led his own team and been a part of others. Hell, he’s been to _space_. At some point, you've got to decide that you trust him, or," Tim swallowed, "you need to stop dangling that trust in front of him."

Predictably, Bruce protested: “I’m not _dangling_—”

“You are.” Jason might not thank him for this, Tim thought. He continued anyway: “He wants you to trust him again. You _must _know that.” 

Bruce didn’t answer. But he was listening, Tim could tell. 

“Every time you work with him, he’s got to hope—but if you yank that away each time he makes a decision you don’t agree with—or hell, we both know it’s not even that—if you yank it away every time he puts himself in danger or shows a temper, then it’s not going to work. I don’t know if you need to forgive him for dying or yourself for letting him, but it’s not fair.” 

Silence. 

Tim didn’t know what conclusions Bruce was drawing about his relationship to Jason right now. To his own surprise, he didn’t care. He had a point to make, so he finished with: “Either accept—and _trust_—him as he is, or set boundaries and let him move on.” 

He watched Bruce, but there was no audible response; just a long stillness, followed by a scowl and the turning of his back to Tim. Well, that was about as expected. 

Tim got back to his research. He already knew what he would find, but he needed to occupy himself until Bruce left and he could return to the future. 

Tim didn’t expect for his little speech to have immediate results; much less that he would hear about it. So it came as a surprise when Jason sought him out in his apartment the following evening.

“So I think the world is ending.” 

Tim didn’t move from his comfortable spot on the couch. “Not _another _alien invasion. You’d think they’d know better by now.” 

Jason laughed and squeezed himself into what little space there was left. Tim graciously lifted his feet, only to drop them onto Jason's lap as soon as he'd settled. The other clearly didn't mind; he just cupped one of Tim's ankles and rubbed it absently as he said: "It's worse than that. Bruce came to _apologize_.” 

In the back of his mind, Tim was doing a celebratory dance worthy of scoring in a world cup final. Out loud, he asked: "What?"

“_Exactly_. Like, he came to me, said he was wrong yesterday—that he’d asked me to move on from everything, but didn’t do it himself, and that he’d try to be better.” 

"Oh, wow." Tim's surprise wasn't even fake. He'd hoped for Bruce to realize some stuff, maybe gradually change his behavior. This went way beyond.

It was nice to know that even after all these years, Bruce was still capable of surprising him. 

“Yeah.” 

“What did you do?” 

“Awkwardly told him: ‘That’d be nice’ ‘cause I was too gobsmacked for anything else,” Jason admitted sheepishly. “And then he vanished and I came here.” 

“Why?” 

"Because I wanted to tell you?" Jason said slowly; as if it was obvious.

He had no idea Tim had anything to do with Bruce’s change of heart, Tim realized. Jason was just… sharing the good news with him. 

Huh. 

Looking at him, Tim noted that he was wearing casual clothes—jeans, a hoodie, socks. “I’m taking the evening off,” he told him anyway—just in case, “wanna stay?” 

Jason’s answering smile was warm as he murmured: “Sure.” 

Tim knew he was doing better—was doing _well_—when he called Steph one day and felt nothing but pleasure at hearing her voice as she agreed to meet up. That gnawing anxiety (what if she had better things to do? What if she was going to get sick of him again?) had finally abated. 

They met in a coffee shop; one of their old hangouts as teens, miraculously still clinging to life despite Gotham's rapidly declining high streets. Steph looked radiant in her mismatched outfit. She wore bangs again; it suited her.

Tim had already bought her favorite iced drink (caramel latte with an extra shot of vanilla syrup), so nothing was stopping her from plopping down on her seat, smiling sweetly at him and getting right to it.

"If you ever go months—or fucking years, Tim, you fucking asshole—without talking to me again, I'm going to skin you alive." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but he could hear the hurt beneath it.

Tim nodded. He had let their friendship slip away far too easily. 

She exhaled noisily. “Good. Cause there is someone who would help me bury the body, but I think she wanted to surprise you with her visit even more.”

A shadow appeared behind Steph. Tim broke out into a grin and sprung up to hug his sister. “Cass!” 

Steph got up, too, and joined the hug. Tim still wasn’t taller than her. It took a long time for them to separate. 

When they had finally sat down again and managed to catch the waiter’s eye and order a drink for Cass, Steph demanded: “Now—tell me everything that happened, in order. I want details. Pics or it didn’t happen.” 

Tim laughed. His heart felt light. 

It took until Tim was twenty-four for his situation with Damian to improve. There wasn’t anything special about the day it happened—just a trap by the Riddler, again, multiple explosives, stupid rhymes, that kind of thing. And Damian, sniping at him to stop being a burden. 

Looking at Damian now—not quite a child anymore, but still so young to him—Tim felt calm wash over him. He had no desire to hurt Damian anymore. He just didn’t want to hurt himself, either. 

He’d talked about this over and over again with his therapist. He could do this. 

"Look. This is my area of expertise, and I don't appreciate being put down at every turn. It doesn't make me angry anymore, just sad." Tim waited a moment to let his words sink in. "Now, can we do this or are you just going to keep insulting me?"

To his surprise, Damian grumbled something on his breath but actually followed his directions to a T.

Maybe he’d grown, too. 

When they were done and nothing had exploded around them, Tim noticed that Bruce was smiling. Really smiling. 

Suddenly. Tim knew he’d been wrong before. _This _was what Bruce looked like when he was proud. Tim had seen that expression directed at him many times over the years. He’d seen it, but he’d stopped recognizing it. 

Today, he smiled back. 

Tim thought about going back and talk to his dad. Say good-bye. Maybe he would, sometime in the future when he could handle it. But not now. 

On the day of his twenty-fifth birthday, Tim was sick. Just a cold, he reassured everyone and their mother; nothing terrible, he didn't even have much of a fever anymore.

Still, he was stuck in the apartment for the day. It didn't feel like that, though. Bruce and Dick dropped by in the morning—a gesture Tim especially appreciated considering how much Bruce loathed that time of the day. Alfred sent his regards (and delicious cake). Steph dropped by for lunch. They video-called Cass together.

Even Damian congratulated him. It was the most genuinely civil interaction they’d had in years. 

In the evening, it was Kon, Cassie and Bart’s turn. They filled Tim’s living room with instant cheer, not to mention a lot of noise. 

They were just debating whether to order in Chinese (possibly not the best for Tim’s stomach right now) or Italian (took a long time to be delivered) when Kon stopped to listen for a moment and told Tim: “Your man is standing outside. I think he’s trying to decide whether to come in.”

Tim smiled and grabbed his phone. He should have expected Jason to drop by. He knew the other man had a present for him. Jason hadn’t made much of a secret of it (“What’s the point, you’ll find out whatever you want”). Tim just hadn’t been sure if he would find the tastefully wrapped copy of _The Three-Body Problem _on his bed later or if Jason would give it to him in person. 

_Come in, it’s fine_

Not three minutes later, the window slid open slightly. Jason was a bit more laden with stuff than Tim had expected, but he still managed to give a casual wave at the assembled heroes before smiling at Tim: “Happy birthday.” 

Tim smiled back. “Thank you.” 

They might've held eye contact a bit too long after that because there was a cough from behind Tim.

Jason lifted a huge container a bit awkwardly. “I brought soup? And bread?” 

Instantly, Bart was on him and smelled the contents of his offerings. "You can stick around," he told Jason, who nodded gravely as if accepting an honor. Seconds later, Tim's tiniest friend was in the kitchen, and the microwave was running.

“We’re watching the Percy Jackson movies,” Kon told Jason, who just nodded and sat down on the couch on Tim’s other side. (Tim had known that it would need to fit several overgrown men when he bought it, and boy was he right.) Out of habit, Tim moved to press right against him when he felt Kon’s eyes on him and froze.

Jason hesitated, too. That was what decided it for Tim. 

Maneuvering himself under Jason's arm didn't elicit much reaction from his friends, anyway. Okay, two of them operated under a different speed than humans and could've sped into another room to have a good giggle for all that Tim knew, but he preferred to think they just weren't all that surprised.

Gradually, Jason relaxed against him. He wasn’t exactly the most talkative in the company—at least company that he wasn’t trying to antagonize—, Tim had noticed. Honestly, that probably helped him in this group. They all had a bad habit of yelling at the tv even while they were chewing down bread and spooning soup into their mouth. 

It reminded Tim a bit of that day everyone had come to cheer up Dick, two years ago. He let himself feel the contentment at that thought. Maybe—just maybe—some of that pride he’d felt that day applied to him today, too. 

Then Cassie threw something at the tv—“That man wouldn’t find a Greek god if Zeus was trying to fuck him!”—and Tim was distracted from his thoughts for the rest of the evening. 

Once the group had left—only after making sure he had enough food, and that he was properly cheered up and not at all miserably-sick now—Jason bade Tim lie on the couch while he cleaned up. Tim didn't mind the mess, to be honest, but he'd noticed Jason was a bit of a clean freak. Oh well. Tim wasn't going to complain if it meant Jason did all the work.

Finally, Tim’s living room was tidy enough for Jason’s exacting standards, and the other man came to sit with him again. Tim was secretly delighted that Jason hadn’t even asked whether he should leave; he was even more so when Jason settled in by his head, allowing Tim to rest his head on his lap. 

They enjoyed the silence for a few minutes. Finally, Jason said: “I like your friends.” 

“Same. I occasionally forget that they like me, too,” Tim admitted. “But I won’t forget again.” 

Jason beamed down at him. “I’m _so _proud of you.” 

Tim smiled back shyly. “I like having you here, too, you know. With or without the soup.” Which had tasted weirdly familiar. Tim was going to have to figure that one out. Impulsively, he added: “You take such good care of me.” 

Jason’s cheeks tinged red; his voice was casual as he said, “I hear that’s what you do when you love someone.” 

Tim swore he could hear a record scratch. 

What—what had Jason just— 

“You love me?” he sputtered. 

“Well, duh.” 

"Don't ‘duh' me—what the fuck, Jason?" Tim could hear his own voice rising in pitch.

Jason was beginning to look defensive. “I know it’s awkward—I shouldn’t have brought it up—but there’s no need to bullshit me. I don’t know how, but it’s obvious that you know. You’re the detective, I’m not surprised.” 

_“What_.” Tim thought he might be hyperventilating. 

There was alarm on Jason’s face now. “Tim?”

Tim held up a hand to stop him from saying another word. Because of their close positions, his palm covered most of Jason's face, but that worked too.

Jason, true to form, just kept talking, muffled as it was. Finally, Tim, resigned to not processing this any time soon, lowered his hand and let him.

“Are you telling me you didn’t know?” Jason asked. 

“I didn’t!” 

That left them at an impasse. Jason stared at Tim, bewilderment written across his face for the first time in this conversation. The confusion turned into an expression that took Tim a moment to place, it was so foreign on Jason’s face—fear. 

Tim reached out without thinking, grabbing onto his shirt and heaving himself up so he was face-to-face with Jason, kneeling between his legs. He couldn’t see him looking so vulnerable and not have him close. 

God—if Jason loved him, then Tim had power over him. He wanted to reassure Jason that he wouldn’t abuse it; that Jason had trusted him so far with it, and that he could continue to do so; that it was the same, of course it was the same for Tim. 

All that came out was a small, croaked: “Why?” 

Jason considered the question. Then he moved. One of his arms found their accustomed place around Tim’s shoulder; the other made a detour, Jason’s right hand gently cradling Tim’s cheek and tilting his head up so they could look each other in the eye. 

“That’s kind of like asking why the sky is blue,” he finally told Tim. “There’s a scientific explanation, sure, a list of reasons, but nothing that will come close to describing its actual beauty.” 

He spoke slowly; just gathering his thoughts, Tim thought and stayed silent.

“You’re probably the most patient person I ever met,” Jason finally began. “And really fucking funny. You got the kind of drive that spurs me on, and you just… try _so hard_. It's incredible to see. Reminds me there's good in Gotham; that's it not about who you're born to be.

"There're small things, too. The way you tuck your hands into your sleeves. The way you sit. The way you tear down bad murder mysteries on tv. " Jason took a deep breath. "The way you let me into your life and make me feel like we're a team. Like it's just a given that we'll support each other. It's amazing to get that from you—and even more that you'd somehow want that _from me_; that you’d trust me to do it.”

“Of course I do,” Tim whispered. He was crying. He couldn’t help it. Still he didn’t look away from Jason, who seemed to be growing in confidence. 

“I’m attracted to you—you _must _have noticed that, Jesus.” 

Tim shook his head minutely, careful not to dislodge the hand on his cheek. 

"Well, I am," Jason told him. "I'm trying really hard to not ruin the mood here by cracking a joke about all the things I'd like to do to you. You're hot. Also, you're obviously strong and terrifyingly well trained, but it's—nice. That I can just hold you like this."

“I like it, too.” 

Jason smiled and tilted his head so his brow was resting against Tim’s. “You know,” he whispered, “when I regained awareness after everything—after the pit—I was suddenly much taller than before my death. That really fucked with my head, cause I couldn’t remember growing. It’s nice, using my height like this. And seeing you smile when I hug you? That’s enough to make up for everything, darling.”

Tim wasn’t smiling now. His hair was sweaty, his face flushed—not all of it from the remnants of his fever; he was crying so much he knew he looked a mess. He could barely get out the “I love you _so much_,” that’s how useless he was in that moment. 

Jason still lit up like it was the best thing he’d ever heard. 

Later (much, much later) Tim realized: Jason hadn't named one single incident or thing that Tim had done to make Jason love him. Tim still didn't know how he'd earned it.

Maybe the answer was—all of it. He’d done all of it, and so had Jason. They had grown separately at first, and then together, and now, finally, the time was right for this. For them.

It followed, then, that Tim would never be able to travel back beyond this point, for what if he changed something in that progression that stopped it irrevocably? He couldn’t risk it. 

He’d relied on time travel for a lot of things over the last seven years. Maybe too much. Even when he hadn’t—the possibility had always been there, reassuring him. It would be tough to have that limited.

But he was braver now than he had been when he was eighteen, Tim thought. Kinder to himself, too. He could handle it. 


End file.
